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Hank cursed, spitting at the pile of sludge pushed against the curb. It was dirtied by the road, tinged varying shades of brown and grey. Too much snow had fallen last night; Connor had taken too much time coming home. In fact, he still wasn't home.
It was odd. It was Detroit, and it was early December. Of course they were getting piles of snow. It wasn't uncommon for Connor to call Hank from Jericho and voice his fear of coming home in the howling winds.
Don't worry, kid, he'd say, Stay there if it's safer.
There had been no such call last night. Hank assumed it was business as usual—Connor would wrap up whatever work he had or whatever meeting he was in and head home. When it passed his usual arrival time, Hank assumed he must have changed his mind and stayed at Jericho. A storm was coming, he knew. Connor wouldn't want to leave in all that. Maybe he had just forgotten to call. That, too, had sent small spikes of fear and dread into him. Connor never forgot. Or at least he never had before. Hank had decided he was being ridiculous and went to bed. Connor was human, he was most likely safe and sound at Jericho's new building across town, and he had just simply forgotten or got wrapped up in something, and didn't tell Hank he was staying. That was all it was.
Until Hank woke at exactly 10 o'clock the next morning. Connor never let him sleep that late, always insisting for him to start his day earlier. It was supposed to be good for him, Connor said.
Hank had thrown off the covers, panicked as he wrenched open his bedroom door and emerged into the hall.
"Connor?" He called shakily. The bathroom door was open, the lights turned off, just as Hank had left it the night before. The door at the end of the hall—the room that had become Connor's—was empty, too.
He walked into the living room, almost stumbling over Sumo laying on the cool floor. The TV was off, the couch unoccupied. Turning towards the kitchen yielded similar results. Connor wasn't there. He hadn't come home.
Hank forced himself to take a deep breath and slowly release it. Maybe Connor was waiting for the roads to clear up a little more. Maybe they had asked for his help with something.
Suddenly, like a horse hit on its rear, Hank moved, scrambling to his bedroom and fumbling as he freed his phone from its charger on the nightstand. He hit Connor's contact first, waiting with baited breath as the phone rang. He was being irrational. Connor would pick up, like he always did—
It went to voicemail. Connor hadn't picked up. Hank tried again, fear rising in his throat like bile. Nothing. The kid's phone was in his head, how could he miss a call?
Hank scrolled through his contact list again, stopping when he came to Markus' name. Markus had given Hank his number, saying to call if there was anything he needed, but Hank, until now, never had. He was reluctant to follow what was more or less the mayor of Detroit's android population, but he figured that he would call, Markus would clear the situation in less than thirty seconds, and they all could go on about their days.
"Good morning, Hank," Markus' pleasant voice came through the cell phone's receiver clearly. "What can I do for you?"
"Hey, uh," Hank felt awkward. He felt stupid; Connor could take care of himself. But things were so tense, anti-android sentiments were too high. How could he not be concerned? "Connor isn't there with you, is he?"
"I'm afraid not. He left late last night, after he finished up a couple of projects here."
Hank cursed again as he relived the memory. He had been banking on Markus' seemingly innate ability to rectify any situation swiftly without breaking that even demeanor of his.
It's not his fault, Hank reminded himself as he leaned against his car, one of many lined up along that stretch of road. The DPD had practically shut it down with the traffic they were causing. According to Simon, who had been able to retroactively trace Connor's GPS signal, this was the area it was last functioning in.
"It's weak, but it says he's somewhere around here," Simon, who was next to him, said. Both he and Markus had come, out of both personal concern for Connor and as representatives of Jericho. It was a kind of political statement to have the DPD working so openly with them, a way of saying that crimes against androids were to be treated the same as crimes against humans…even if Hank had to technically file Connor's disappearance as a missing property report.
It had enraged him. It still pissed him off if he stopped and thought about it. Markus and Simon, standing in Fowler's office with Hank early that afternoon, hadn't looked too pleased themselves, but hadn't argued, and surely hadn't argued as passionately as Hank did. As soon as they were given permission to leave, Hank asked them why not.
"Laws and mandates don't change that quickly," Markus had replied with both endless patience and an even tone.
But Fowler must have a heart, Hank supposed, considering how many officers he had sent to help conduct the search. It was mostly beat cops, though Gavin had also been spared from the bull pen. Hank wished it had been anyone else, but beggars couldn't be choosers.
"Lieutenant?" Simon prompted, breaking Hank from his reverie.
"Oh—sorry. Thanks. We'll set up a grid and go from there."
And go from there they did. In systematic squares the small cluster started their search. The several inches of snow certainly didn't help, dragging out how long it would have taken one individual to cover their designated area considerably. In fairer weather, Hank wouldn't have bothered with such a tedious search pattern, especially with the spread out nature of the search. But fueled by his desperation and fear, he couldn't help but be meticulous.
They pushed on, digging at the snow quickly turning to ice, the silence punctuated by only the occasional mumble, until the winter sun began to set. Which, of course, was far too early according to Hank.
In fact, Hank was still digging through his quadrant in the fading light when a gentle hand landed on his shoulder. Startled, he looked up to find Markus.
"Hank," he ventured gently, as if trying not to startle a wounded animal, "maybe it's time to stop for today? We won't find him in the dark."
His face fell. "Can't you and Simon see in the dark?"
"We have heightened visual sensors, yes, but it'd be a lot of area to cover with just the two of us."
"Well, there are some people at Jericho who need jobs, right? Call them out here, I'll pay them out of my own pocket. Couldn't be much, but—"
Markus shook his head. "Hank," he interrupted, firm though not unkind. "We all want to find Connor just as badly as you do. But searching in the dark will no doubt be sloppy, and without rest, none of us are any good to him."
Hank sighed, finally pausing in his shoveling. He stared wordlessly at the dent he had put into the snow in his section. He hated the cold, and the way its greedy tendrils took and took and took. He hated the snow and its silent violence. Connor hated, too, Hank remembered. He hated snow and heights and vulnerability. He would have done anything to avoid being both cold and vulnerable at the same time, which Hank supposed was a large reason as to why his disappearance was so unsettling. Well, besides the obvious.
Hank looked back up at Markus, whose eyes reflected such a patient understanding that it made Hank disgusted with himself. "You're right," he answered finally, and Markus replied with a small smile and a minute nod of his head.
Hank abandoned his quadrant, and tried to shake the feeling that he was abandoning Connor, too. He would be back at first light tomorrow, regardless of whatever time anyone else decided to show up at. He stalked, defeated, towards his car where it was parked at the midway point of the search grid. From there, he would yell his misery to everyone, echoing the words Markus had just told him: give up for now, rest up, see you tomorrow.
He was just a few yards shy of his beat up old car when a voice shouted, "Lieutenant! I think I found something!"
Hank didn't know how many years it had been since he had moved as quickly. He rarely ran anymore, his protesting joints and admittedly poor self-care keeping him from being fast enough for it to matter. Chases were now usually delegated to Connor.
Hank reached the source of the voice, a beat cop in a quadrant on the other side of the search area, with Markus hot on his heels. Simon, who had been assigned an area nearby, was already there, kneeling next to the officer in front of an area she had cleared of snow.
Hank looked over their shoulders, and sure enough, there was Connor lying supine, still mostly covered in snow. His head was titled to the side, away from them, obscuring his LED. There was no movement—no rise and fall of his chest with his breathing program, no twitching in his artificial muscles. Parts of the skin projection on Connor's face had flickered out, and the patches of exposed chassis made it appear as if frost had begun to form over him.
Simon reached out, digging Connor's left arm out from under the snow, and Hank didn't miss how the tips of Connor's fingers were white, too. Hank moved, kneeling at Connor's other side, while Simon pressed his fingertips gently on the inside of Connor's forearm.
Hank busied himself, brushing snow from Connor's forehead and right shoulder, afraid to look up at Simon's expression. It was nonsensical, he knew, but somehow not having a confirmation that Connor was dead meant that he could still be alive. Markus joined him after a few moments, standing behind Hank as if guarding over the group.
Simon gasped, pulling his hand away from Connor's arm. "He's alive."
His revelation was met with only a beat of shocked silence before it propelled everyone into action.
"Gimme your shovel," Hank ordered the officer as he stood. She readily obeyed, and soon Hank was gently nudging small piles of snow from where it obscured Connor's abdomen. Markus gave collected orders for blankets and a few flashlights, as the sun had now almost completely disappeared behind the horizon.
Hank only paused long enough to fumble his car keys from his pocket, barely looking at Simon as he shoved them into his hands. "Here, start up my car and turn the heat and headlights on."
"On it," Simon replied, already turning away.
A few minutes later, Hank had removed the top layer of snow from Connor's still form, and dropped the shovel aside. He knelt by Connor again, this time using his hands to remove the layer closest to Connor's skin, out of fear that the shovel would hurt him. By then, Simon had returned, kneeling at Connor's feet to begin to assist Hank.
Hank shifted, turning to dump a handful of snow from over Connor's sternum out of the way, when a strange blue tint reflected in the dim glow of his headlights. He inhaled sharply, ignoring Markus' concerned inquiries as he hurried to remove more handfuls of snow from the same area.
Hands trembling in the searing glow of the flashlight the beat cop held, Hank sat back, horrified at the blue staining his fingers and palms. Wide-eyed, he looked from Simon to Markus, both androids paling—or whatever their equivalent was—at the sight.
"We need to get him to Jericho," Simon muttered as Markus moved from his security vigil to join the effort.
What followed was little more than a blur in Hank's memory. Between the three of them, Connor was carefully unearthed quickly, and soon, Hank had one arm slid carefully under Connor's neck, and the other gently across the middle of his back. Markus joined him, as he was closer to Hank's height than Simon's. Markus slid one arm under Connor's lower back, and his other under Connor's knees. Slowly and carefully, they lifted simultaneously, avoiding jostling Connor too much. Simon ensured Connor's arms were secure, and then lead the others towards Hank's car, flashlight in hand.
When they reached the Oldsmobile, Simon opened the passenger door, and then scrambled for the lever on the side of the seat, reclining it fully. Hank pivoted first once Simon was out of the way, and after a brief struggle, Connor lay unmoving in the front seat.
Markus and Simon whispered between each other while Hank peeled Connor's coat off—excruciatingly slow. He then shrugged off his own, laying it across Connor before turning to Markus and Simon. They were both quick to do the same, and Hank shut the passenger door once the small pile of coverings was deemed as good as it was going to get at that moment.
"Simon will go with you," Markus said, gently tapping Hank's shoulder. "He'll be able to keep him stable."
The drive to Jericho took an easy second place for the top three most terrifying car rides Hank had taken. He had been so careful, the weather and the fear of injuring Connor further creating constant obstacles in his path.
When they lifted Connor again from the front seat, the snow once more began to fall, flurries collecting in their hair and across their shoulders.
Connor awoke trembling and confused. He expected to be home, warm and cozy in his bed. Instead, he started at the unfamiliar ceiling above him, his sluggish processors struggling to place his surroundings.
There was a faint hum of external machinery on his left, and his chest felt tight with what his sensors told him was plastimetal sealant. With a lift of his head and a crane of his neck, he took in the small pile of blankets over him, and the space heaters plugged into the wall and positioned on either side of the bed.
He had been hurt…and somewhere very cold.
His head flopped back onto the pillow below it, and he blinked slowly at the ceiling.
Oh, he thought finally, New Jericho.
Satisfied that he was somewhere safe, Connor allowed his eyes to drift shut. When he opened them again, a new sound in the room had joined the soft billows from the heaters and the lullaby whir of the machinery. A murmur of voices sounded above him. Unlike the room, they were familiar.
Connor opened his eyes to find Hank, Markus, and Simon all looking already looking at him. His social program flickered in his visual display, informing him that they looked relieved, though all three had minute discrepancies in their expressions: there was a tightness around Hank's eyes and the corners of his mouth, Simon's blinking rate was slower than usual, and Markus' reassuring grin seemed to be uncharacteristically forced.
"You all look awful," Connor rasped.
Markus laughed, the sound genuine, if a bit strained, and Hank reached out a hand, ruffling his hair with the lightest of touches, as if he were afraid Connor might break. He hated that feeling.
He frowned, and Simon shuffled out of sight as he spoke. "You okay, Connor? Nothing is abnormal in your readings."
"I'm okay."
"Hm," Simon didn't seem convinced, but he didn't press. "Well, if something ever doesn't feel right, you know how to reach me."
Connor worked to school his expressions after that. He wasn't being fair, he knew that. "Thanks, Simon, I will."
Simon patted his shoulder. "Anytime."
"Do you…," Hank started, "remember what happened, kid?"
Connor could feel the crease between his brows form. "Yes, but I don't want to."
"Okay. That's fine, kid, we don't have to talk about it. You wanna go home?"
"Very much so."
Connor was home, though not how Hank wanted. The broken, huddled figure buried in blankets on his couch was not what he had been so desperate for. Connor was home, and alive, which Hank was infinitely glad for, but only after he and Connor were forced to contend with a shared horror.
Hank brought the two mugs to the coffee table, handing the one containing warmed blue blood to Connor, before settling down on the other side of the couch with his own mug of coffee.
"Y'know, kid," Hank said, kicking his feet up on the table, "I hope it warms up early this year."